


Snapping Backwards Over the Edge

by ForevermoreNevermore



Series: Flock [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Acrophobia, Angel Stiles, Angels, Angels are Dicks, BAMF Stiles, Blood, Broken Bones, Demons, Derek Uses His Words, Established Relationship, Exorcisms, Hurt Stiles, Kidnapped Stiles, Kidnapping, Kissing, M/M, Protective Derek, Protective Stiles, Torture, Whump, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 09:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForevermoreNevermore/pseuds/ForevermoreNevermore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is hunting a demon. Turns out the demon is hunting him back.</p><p>Also: The time leading to the time that Stiles had no time to get over his Acrophobia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Demons Are Dicks

**Author's Note:**

> Whelp, for those of you following this series, have some whump! For those of you who haven't been following, have some whump anyway! This is more a two-parter and I will add more tags when I write the next chapter. I really hope you enjoy!

There's a demon flitting through town like it owns the place. One could say, rather like Derek did but at least Derek gave Stiles massages and kisses and those were definitely things he wouldn't accept from a damn, dirty demon. 

Stiles had already knocked it out of three different people, not ten syllables into the exorcism before it flitted out and the person was staring at him like he was insane and why the hell are you touching my face? 

"Sorry m'am, your makeup still looks just as flawless as it did before I-uh-" Stiles whirs around the corner and lets out a huff of air, praying the woman wouldn't persue him. Aggravation grates down his neck and adds to the already world-worn wear that drags on both sides of his spine. It hurts to keep them hidden, just so he doesn't scare the ever-loving shit out of some human. Well, he took werewolves in stride and Derek took angels in stride so why on Earth they had to talk down to them-

"Hello Stiles." And something buzzes, sharp and tight, between the junctures of his wings.

______________

The electricity was still pulsing through his body, wracking through his wings and sputtering out his feathers as Stiles bites down on his tongue to keep from moaning. Oh God, was that drool?

Stiles shifts, his neck popping obscenely as he straightens and forces his heavy eyes open. It was all dark and disgustingly drippy, humidity weighing heavy enough on his sort-of grown out hair that it was now plastered to his forehead like seaweed. It smelt like mold and something Stiles would't force into a trash can. It took a few addled thoughts to realize that his wings were cracking and bending uncomfortably under the strain of chains, snapping them back to the chair every time he tried to slide them free.

Terror jumps in Stiles' throat as something slithers wetly to the right of the room. There's nothing to see in the dark, but he can't let his eyes drift as he tests the bonds. His arms are stuck fast, legs tied at the ankle. Water sloshes weakly as his foot shifts and something sinks deep in the back of Stiles' mind. 

A snap cracks the air and electricity jerks itself into his body from that same, waterlogged foot. His wings pop to get out of their bonds but they only crinkle and a few of the outer feathers drift to the ground. 

"Dude, I just got done molting! Now I'm going to have bald spots." Stiles hisses out, tasting blood from where he'd snapped his jaw closed on his tongue. The demon slides into the small slants of light then, fingers wrapped lightly around a stun gun. 

"Poor little angel." It coos, avoiding any puddle of water until he was nearly touching Stiles' chair.

"Who you calling little?" Stiles shoots back. The demon taps on the handcuffs gently, lowering himself until his breathe fans over Stiles' face and- ew, gross. 

Stiles drew his face into a sneer. 

The demon shrugs nonchalantly. "I've been trying to get you for centuries, so your snark isn't going to waylay me here. I've got you." Stiles winces away from the tongue dragging along his cheek. It flicks him in the eye and then retracts. 

Stiles lunges against his bonds, expecting to be able to pop them like oysters. Just an inch from the wickedly grinning monster they jerk him back into the hardwood, cracking the junctures of his wings. Forgetting the whole "don't lose eye contact" intimidation tactic, Stiles snaps his head down to see the embedded symbols dancing along the silver hand cuffs. 

"Like I said..." the demon had changed positions, voice drifting lazily from behind him now. Stiles' body seizes as he feels hands dancing on his wings, inbetween his feathers, and then they grasp at the lightweight bones. It snaps rather anticlimactically, but Stiles' scream echoes like a dream. "I've got you." 

______________________

Derek feels something weigh heavily on the back of his mind out of nowhere. He knew it wasn't worry, he'd been worried all fucking day and that's not what it was. This was heady and knowing, this was dread. 

A bit of the wolf found its way to the surface, clawing against his skin and rising into his senses. The lines turn so sharp it's dizzying and sounds click from filtered to surround sound. He listens, tossing aside the irrevelant; the heavy thrum of a running rabbit, the calm beat of a deer. It all came down to nothing. Nothing was wrong near him... but nevertheless he couldn't hear the strangely melodic beat of Stiles' heart. 

So he ran, tossing aside all prior engagements to dash around the town, listening and praying- but mainly listening. So desperately waiting to hear that song he knew to be the angel's and knowing that he shouldn't have let him go fucking demon hunting alone. Demons. 

What. The. Hell.

He was just rounding around town when the acrid smell of burnt flesh assaults his senses. Derek stops so fast he gave himself a headache, forgetting that to snap his neck down an alleyway where the scent was the worst. Here Derek could smell him, Stiles, bright and clean and slightly crispy. He follows the trail, attempting to keep the rest of the wolf down. But it was about like slamming a trap door over a rising tide. It bubbled through in every single nook and cranny.

By the time there was a large warehouse looming in the distance, coarse hair was a stitch from bursting out along his face, fangs just barely held in. Then he hears it, Stiles' familiar heartbeat sped up about ten times. He chomps on a roar and speeds to the entrance, the banging in his ears still going faster than his footsteps and that just wasn't acceptable. 

Claws catch on metal as he contemplates if he should have some sort of plan? Maybe... an idea or angle to work. Would bursting in catch a demon off-guard, what the fuck did he even know about demons-

Glass shatters in the single light above the door, cracking in the same frequency as the scream that echoes again and again in the tin of the warehouse before berating Derek upside the head. It knocks thoughts from his head as if it were a baseball bat and in the space of a blink Derek is charging through the door and into the space with a rebounding howl, a growl rumbling in his chest that was bitten into a wrecked sound. 

So bursting in it is.

Derek sideswipes the demon away from Stiles, claws digging into his head like a melon so when they land, it's demon head first.

"Get the- the- Derek!" Stiles was rambling in a shout, sentences folding into eachother before he could finish. "Stab him with the knife!" 

The demon recovers quick, though. It grabs Derek by the front of his shirt and rolls him into the concrete. 

"Ooooh," The demon crows, flipping the bloody knife in his hand so that the loose red blood spikes down onto Derek's face. The smell of Stiles is so heavy it's like a wet towel. "A pet!"

"Gettim witha knife!" Stiles' words were now slurring ridiculously together, punctuated with pants and keens. It was horribly distracting while he was trying to wrestle with a demon. Too hard to worry and be lethal at the same time.

Derek got a slash in, clawing his hand into the thing's thigh with enough fervor that it flinches and pauses for a moment, face contorting to pain.

"Don't killit-" Derek swipes at the knife with an aggravated grunt, not quite enjoying the back seat fighting. The knife digs into the other thigh and the demon screeches in what could only be about ten different decibles. 

"Now drag 'im over here." Stiles orders, head lolling dangerously to the left. The thing got in a sturdy punch, but it ultimately did nothing more than make Derek angrier. 

"Now what?" Derek growls, claws digging into the thing's head. It was hard, almost too hard, to keep from just snapping and popping the thing then and there, especially when offered up the full display of the more crimson than pale Stiles.

Stilles gives a weary tug of his arm, the small sound of metal drawing Derek's attention to the handcuffs encircling purpling wrists. He was livid, but gentle as he snapped through the metal with one hand. 

"Show-off," Stiles smiles shakily before lowering his gaze to the demon.

"You bastard." The demon hisses, hands snapping forward to Stiles' neck. Derek's quick to grab one, and almost faster than he did Stiles grabs the other one, snapping it from vertical to horizontal with a flick and a smile. 

"Yeah, well I'm cute... and you most decidedly aren't." Derek watches as part of Stiles' daze evaporates in the face of the demon's howls. 

Stiles draws close to the demon, taking in something that Derek could only guess at. Then he starts to speak, in a slow languid voice that spills over those red lips like individual slugs. Each word has the demon tightening, winding up and baring his teeth. When the demon starts to curse, Stiles' smile just widens and his pace slows, allowing each word to emblazen across the demon in Derek's grasp. The angel took his time, in the face of spittle and 'fuck you, you little feathery fuck-face I hope you slip on a corpse'. The words form a sort of heavy shimmer in the air to the point where breathing was hard. The demon's still cursing and Stiles is still speaking and Derek's still not sure what's going on. 

The demon's target suddenly changes from Stiles to Derek and that's when the angel strikes, whipping up a fist to ram it directly into the demon's nose. It proved an immovable object in Derek's hand so Stiles' equally solid hand ran the cartiledge flat. For a moment the insults continued in the squeaky voice and then he let out a wail and tried to shake of the hand. It was demeaning and Stiles was smiling like someone had cut it into him before his voice drops off. Far from a silent pause, Stiles' mouth remains open for a few seconds (here Derek saw the blood slowly building up in the angel's mouth). The angel and the demon share one final gaze before Stiles whispers his last word. 

Derek winces at the grating screech, the sound beaten only by that of every scrap of glass imploding. There was a light that had Derek clenching his eyes closed. The body in his hand slumps down as one of the heartbeats in the room slams to a stop. He can't tell when the screaming stops for the violent ringing in his ears, and the spots dancing bizarrly in his vision are disorienting. Derek knows he's on the ground only when he feels cold concrete and water on his hands and knees. Something rests in his hair.

"-rek. Derek!" The ringing stops so sharply that Derek winces at Stiles' voice. The wolf is prowling on the surface still, but after a few moments of the angel weaving maestro's fingers through his hair it slinks back.

Derek arches into the touch and glances pleadingly up at Stiles.

"Are you okay?" 

"Okay's a strong word." Stiles says with a cracked laugh, bubbling up with what looked like a liter of blood that slops down the front of his chest and runs rivulets down a porcelain neck. Derek recoils from the acrid smell and grimaces at Stiles. Okay is not a strong word. Okay is the most mild word in the english dictionary. It's also not an accurate word.

Derek pops the other handcuff before undoing the ones tying his feet to the chair. He winces at Stiles' right foot.

"Shocking, huh?" Derek growls at the joke and ignores the weak chuckle Stiles gives. He goes to help up the angel, but Stiles pushes the hand out of the way. 

"I got this, Sir Grump." And he does, for about two seconds. Stiles pushes off the arm rests of the chair, standing on shaky legs until he releases his white-knuckled hold. Red lips drop into an 'o' of surprise and he arches backward before overcompensating and stumbling into Derek. He catches Stiles and gently leads him to the ground after kicking the demon's corpse out of the way. 

Immediately, Derek sees the problem. Problems, he should say. The twin calico wings trussed and locked into the most impossible positions. One is cracked in precisely the opposite direction it's supposed to go halfway down the shaft and Derek can't help the small whine at the back of his throat. In an instant, Stiles is cupping his face.

"Could you be a dear and free my wings?" He asks shakily, mouth stretched tentatively. Fingers dig desperately into his face, as if the whole of his weight is settled in those ten little spots. Derek nods mutely, grounding his jaw into a frown and slowly laying Stiles out on the ground. The fingers trail from his face miserably. As gentle as he was with the bruised wrists, he's more so with these feathery gifts. He runs his hand along the chains until he finds the weakest link, then he snaps it. 

The effect is instantaneous, as soon as slack was presented the wings snap out unbidden, cracking against concrete and riding a cry all the way out of Stiles' clenched jaw. There's the splatter of blood up near Stiles' head and Derek doesn't even want to look. So he doesn't, instead running soothing hands through the feathers as he'd seen Stiles do, avoiding any trouble spots. He gently kneads at the space between the wings, hoping against all odds it would help at least a little. Help against the runes carved into a pale chest and the bruised wrists, fucking fried foot and busted face. 

"Fix it." Stiles bubbles into the cement, so sudden Derek doesn't understand what he means.

"What?" Derek punctuates his word with a touch to his nape, because, honestly, he'd give anything to fix it. Stiles rolls his neck and puts his cheek to the concrete, staring beseeching up at the werewolf.

"Fix. It." Stiles grits. "It won't heal right if it's not reset and- I can't-" Stiles finishes gesticulating with one limp hand to the wing flopping closest to Derek. For a moment Derek's heart stops, before remembering he's had to deal with worse. Of course. 

"Can you... can you turn away?" Derek swallows as Stiles turns soundlessly. At first he runs soothing hands along the wing, avoiding the break. But that's not going to help Stiles. 

That's not what he needs.

So Derek sucks in a breath, braces one hand on one side, one hand on the other, and levers the wing back into place. 

Derek's head reverberates with the sounds Stiles is making on the ground, but he doesn't let up until the wing is running smoothly again, his advanced hearing picking up the sickening chalk of a bone 'schnicking' against another. The feathers are crackling under his hand, but he is done. The bone is straight and Stiles is huffing into the concrete. Fingernails leave bloody trails and a shudder runs up Stiles' spine that turns out to be less of a shudder and more of breakfast. He retches once, twice, then almost falls into the sick. Derek catches him in time, rolling him out of the way and into his lap. He can tell that the puke is more red than anything else. 

"Thank you." Stiles says quietly. Derek whines and it vibrates his whole head. He wipes away blood pooling at the corner his angel's mouth with the hem of his shirt. 

Derek tries again, because he can't find words. "Are you okay?"

Stiles gives a manic sound that Derek's too afraid to even categorize. "If okay is synonymous with being ran through a meat grinder, then yes. I'm totally okay." 


	2. After Careful Consideration, Angels Are Also Dicks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time that led to the time that Stiles had no time to get over his acrophobia.
> 
> Or: No Matter How Much Derek Hale is Good At, He Most Certainly Isn't Aerodynamic and Thank God For That.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp, after re-reading this chapter it seems that Derek may be a bit OOC. I really apologize if he is... but he's really hard to write, at least for me. Either way, I hope you still enjoy it regardless! Thanks for reading :)

"So... cursed?" Stiles sighed, as if having to explain the process all over again was the most taxing thing he'd ever been through. The yellow-stained purple bruises around his eye proved otherwise, no matter how close they were to being gone. 

"Yes. Cursed. As in, left out on a new moon after dipped in a virgin's blood after her first kiss that happened on the third Monday in November." Derek raised an eyebrow. Surely it wasn't that specific. "Okay, hyperbole aside you get the drift. That's why I had you stab him with it. It kept him in his little meat suit so I could perform the ol' Latin Tango on his essence. It's quite literally a double edged sword, to wield it against a demon is to wield it against yourself, and vice versa. It was planned to 'patrol' us or some shit like that." Stiles rolled his eyes and unfolded his legs so that they cut small trenches in the soft dirt. Derek huffed in the smell of nature, attempting to ignore the lacing of blood and burnt flesh still drifting around the angel. The wounds were healing at the speed of humanity (which, as Stiles put it, might as well have been about as fast as a migrating rock). The Latin scribbles across his chest were just scabbing over and every time he moved, he winced and wheezed like an old man. 

"I figured angels would have higher pain tolerances than humans." Derek sniped after one such incident. Stiles' glare was acerbic, but seeing as it was, indeed, Stiles, it really had no effect other than scrunching up the bruise and bringing around more pain. 

"Yeah, well, cut us, do we not bleed?"

"What?"

Stiles shrugged jerkily, wings fluffing up huffily behind him. "I don't know, just shut up."

"So, your wings healed so fast because it wasn't caused by the cursed sword, right?" Derek asked. Stiles nodded.

"Luckily." 

Derek glanced out over the town. They were picnicking out by the rocky drop-offs. Stiles, however, didn't seem to keen in looking over the edge. "I've never seen you fly."

"You've also never seen The Holy Grail, but I don't judge you for that. Too harshly. Okay, bad example. Let me try again-"

"Stiles," Derek snapped at the line of thought, eyeing the angel critically. Stiles just returned the stare. "Why don't you ever fly?"

"Does the sentence fragment 'need to stay hidden' mean nothing to big, fluffy brutes?" Derek shuffled the 'fluffy' bit away for a later conversation because, a: no one called Derek Hale fluffy and b- well one was all he needed.

"But don't you ever want to stretch them out?" Stiles' brows dipped in the middle and he snapped his wings out impudently. 

"Happy?" Derek frowned and they held each other's equally dissatisfied looks for a few leaden moments. Stiles deflated first, as per usual. "I sometimes jump off trees in the middle of the forest...?" 

"When you have all of this?" Derek gestured to the drop-off and the miles of empty space above. Stiles turned out of habit to see where he was pointing, then let out a pitiful little sound and snapped his head back to look at Derek, face tooled to say 'nothing's wrong, don't ask' in about fifty different languages. Stiles' heartbeat rose into the sky when he wouldn't, and Derek's mouth dropped in a flash of realization. 

"You're- I mean-" Stiles' mouth tightened at the words Derek couldn't really even find. So he started from a different point. "Do you want to? Fly?" 

Derek waited, listening to the thrum-bump of Stiles heart as he just stared, open mouthed, feathers weaving in the wind. Then his tongue pressed at his bottom teeth and he blinked for an answer. 

"Yes."

"But you're..." Derek drew the word out and tilted his head as he tested the waters. Stiles mimicked the motion, raising his eyebrows in a silent grant of permission. Say it. "Scared." Not a question. He knew. He knew from the pulse and he knew because Stiles was Stiles, tells and all.

Stiles' lips twisted into something disgusted with the word, then twitched into a rueful smile. 

"Yup. Stiles Stilinski, Angel Extraordinaire. My specialties are rooting out attractive werewolves, getting electrocuted by demons, tripping over my feet, and a not so acute case of acrophobia." Stiles finished with a mocking little bow, tucking his head down before cutting a glance up at Derek. Waiting. 

"You exorcised a demon." Derek said. 

The silence following the statement was filled with some grade A acting. Stiles jerked his head up, jaw working as he raised a finger to say something, then dropping it because he figured that wouldn't work. Another half-thought out statement punctuated and trashed with a flick of his wing. He narrowed his eyes and just stared for about the length of ten periods, an unexplained exclamation point interjected with the curve of his lips. Then everything shut down at once. Stiles folded his hands over his lap and tossed his head backwards with a loud, "what?"

Derek curved a full grin into something much smaller. "A demon." He tutted. "And you can't jump off of a cliff with a natural parachute grafted to your back." 

Stiles head snapped back to level so fast Derek heard the pop. "Well, how about you jump off the cliff first so I know I'll have some not-so-cushion waiting for me at the bottom of the fucking mountain when I fall to my untimely doom?"

"Well that is literally making a mountain out of a molehill." 

Stiles leaned forward onto his palms, crawling awkwardly closer to Derek so he could glare directly into his eyes. He poked a finger in Derek's chest. 

"You know your ever-present I'm-calm-in-the-face-of-doom-because-that's-my-middle-name does nothing to actually help me so either stow it or tell me you've been struck by lightening mid-flight and crash landed into the ocean so we can bond over tea and braid each other's beards because you should really try shaving. You look like the guy behind the pawn shop sometimes."

Derek just let the sudden burst of anger run its course, knowing eventually Stiles would huff out a long breath and say something-

"No, no I actually really like your scruff don't shave." 

Derek let out a noise and lowered his head so he was even with Stiles. "Is that why you don't fly anymore? Because you were struck by lightening?" His mind drifted to the still-healing skin on the bottom of his foot and felt a flash of anger-mixed pity. 

Lips twitched off to the right, following their owner's gaze as it lurched off in memory. "Actually, not exactly. A friend was trying to get me over my fear, so he told me to go fly over there and he'd catch me if something happened. Well, something happened and he didn't- well he wasn't exactly, I've had bad luck with people being there to catch me." The uncomfortable chuckle scraped against Derek's senses. "I mean, I'm sure the little bastard was doing something important, but-"

"No." Derek growled, waiting for Stiles' brown eyes to find his before he continued. They did, reluctantly. "Don't laugh it off like it's nothing. It's something. It's the most important something when someone says they'll catch you and they don't."    

Stiles smiled bitterly, like he'd been told by people that it wasn't, by people who's name Derek wanted to write in a ledger over their address and phone numbers in their own blood. Stiles spoke with sarcasm, the usual dose, soaking in curtains over something deep and hurt and ultimately quiet. "Are you going to catch me, Derek?" 

Derek hooks a finger in the loose neck of Stiles' shirt and tugs him close, dragging his forehead against the angel's and brushing his nose against the stark bone of his cheek. Derek finds his lips through the internal map he has of Stiles' face and lets his ghost across the other's. So close, so that the word he says and the promise he makes can't bleed out into the clean, cool air of the forest. Derek says it into the kiss so that it's an electric circuit made complete, says it so that he can feel Stiles' heartbeat hammer in those perfect, perfect lips. "Forever."

"Sap..." Stiles reconnects the circuit to say it, whisper it really, half a moan and half a wrecked sound that could've been anything. But he's smiling into the kiss and Derek can't help but match it as the angel crowds up into his space, wings corralling them closer until they slot against each other. 

Derek taps Stiles' hip, then puts his hand over a thigh, and relishes the fact that they both send his pulse to the moon and back. A sin function. 

But now's not the time for math or kisses that make him glad he's sitting down because the cartilage of his knees was in the process of melting to his feet in a mushy puddle. Sickening, really. 

Derek hums and presses Stiles back a hand over his chest, just far enough that he can meet his eye. Stiles makes a little sound, then glares playfully. "Hey, I need you to do a favor for me."

Stiles' eyebrows do some mighty impressive acrobatics before deciding on suspicious. "I knew it. You could work for the government, damn you. What is it?" 

Derek didn't say a word, just craned his neck and glanced over at the cliff, eyes cutting back to catch Stiles' reaction. The reaction turned out to be feigned hurt and offense.

"Did I say I was dating a werewolf? Wonder where I got that idea from because I'm obviously dating Satan." 

Derek just huffed and stood, dragging Stiles up with him. The blood under his papery skin was warm and halting, pressing hard against the grip Derek had around his wrist. 

"Whoa! Whoa, hey there, Balto, heel!" Derek snapped around fast enough that a bitten off word turned into a yelp, Stiles' free hand coming up to defend himself weakly. It swatted at Derek's upper arm. 

"Look Stiles, I promise I won't let anything happen. You said you wanted to fly-"

"I kinda want to fly away from here right now-"

Derek let out a growl. "Trust me."

There it was, the two words that started the whole thing knitted between the two of them. The two knots at the start of a project. 

Stiles stopped trying to get away and shuffled a foot. "It's kind of hard to trust you when you growl at me." It was a shit excuse and Derek called it out with silence. "Okay, yeah, you're right, all you do is growl. Moot point." 

Derek gave a gentler tug this time, asking instead of dragging. Stiles shot him a good, searching stare before sighing as if to retract his previous long-suffering one. That had most certainly not the bookmark of the 'most taxing thing'. 

They stepped to the edge together, the werewolf and the tightly coiled spring. For a moment it looked like Derek could just brush against a feather and it would shatter like ice. So he rubbed gently over the pulse point until the thundering died down. 

"If you stay so tense you'll fall like a statue."

"Oh, because you've flown so many times?" Stiles snapped, but he loosened nonetheless. He wiggled his shoulders and popped his neck, ending with a critical eyebrow at Derek. Happy now?

Derek nodded. "So-uh, I guess you just fly?" Stiles face burned red, but before he could retort with about a million smart-ass comments Derek shushed him. "What's the hardest part?"

Stiles' neck strained, but then he swallowed and swiveled his head. He answered when his skin returned to its original hue. "Honestly? It's the jumping part." 

"Well, have you ever..." Derek stopped and took a step back, hands over Stiles' shoulders so that he turned backwards. The sudden movement made the angel sway and let out a loud curse when a few rocks crumbled. "Have you ever thought of going off backwards?" 

"How exactly are you going to catch me again?" Stiles asked, ignoring the comment. Derek shuffled through a few things he could say, but couldn't find anything even remotely helpful.

"I'm a werewolf-" he started, words rolling strangely from his throat to form an answer he knew but couldn't think of, "an alpha. And you're my mate. It's in my genes to always catch you when you fall." Stiles blinked, still a bit unsure. "Now shut up and jump." The angel nodded.

"There we go. I was wondering where Derek went." Derek ignored him and put a hand over his chest, just going to gently push Stiles out into the air. Hands wrapped around his wrist in a picture of desperation.

"Wait, wait! Uh, give me a moment this is a pretty big, uh, step-" nervous chuckle, "for me right now. Can I have a 'good luck, Stiles', maybe a 'go get 'em, tiger?' One last kiss before I turn into mush against the rocks, yeah, maybe three kisses? Or we could go make out over by that tree. You like to make out and-" Derek gave a sharp push, but Stiles still had a tight grip on his wrist so it just succeeded in arching his spine and whipping his wings into a furry. "I swear to God, Derek, if you push me before I'm ready you will not get even the littlest piece of my angelic ass until you are the geriatric werewolf everyone knows you are at heart." 

Derek smiled, but it was all teeth. "Don't make threats you can't keep." Stiles swallowed tightly, a comeback already about to roll from those lips, before there was the sound of a vacuum being ripped through the air.

Or he guessed that's what it sounded like. Metaphysical things were always a bit out of his grasp. 

Derek clenched at Stiles' shirt so he could pull him away from the ledge when he turned. Stiles' shocked yelp echoed in the forest and didn't even seem to phase the man standing by a tree, black hair curling tightly to his head.

"Merle?" Stiles shouted, weaseling out of Derek's grasp so he could stand up straight. The angel (Derek so desperately hoped it was an angel because he didn't feel like getting used to something new) stared apathetically before recognition rode a wave across his face.

"Stiles?" The voice was understated and posh, coming out clipped with a tiny whistle of a lisp. 

"Merle..." Stiles repeated, voice dipping into polite distaste. "We were actually just talking abou-" It suddenly looked like Stiles' was choking, the word dropping abruptly as his face turned red and the hand flitting by his side stopped dead. Merle's head rolled lightly as he examined Stiles with dark eyes, gaze flicking to Derek after a full examination. 

That's where the shit hit the fan.

Merle's face lit up lividly. "You told someone?" The voice cracked across the clearing like a whip, sending the hair skittering up along Derek's spine. Stiles was between the angel and Derek before he could even react.

"You poofed into the fucking clearing!"

"I saw your wings!"

"Not just 'someone', I told-"

"I always knew you'd be the first to crack our secret out." Merle snapped, before muttering under his breath, "scared of heights."

"It's not my fault you-" But Merle was gone, reappearing in the form of a hand around the back of Derek's neck. He let out a wild slash that hit nothing but air.

"You knew this would happen if anyone knew..." was the only cryptic warning Derek got before he was flung out over the edge of the cliff, cry lodged at the back of his throat with the only thought left to rattle around his mind being that, yup, he'd be scared of this too.

__________________

Stiles didn't hear his own word tearing through the forest, but it sounded suspiciously like 'Derek!' or it might've been 'Merle you piss-ant!' 

Channeling Lydia he calculated the fall (actually he'd calculated the fall when he'd had his back to it so he'd know how long he had to lament his poor, wasted life). Fifteen seconds till Derek was smashed into 2D. Two seconds to get to the edge and he'd wasted three figuring this shit out. His foot slid to grasp at the pine needles and loam, panic heaving wetly at the base of his stomach. Calculating how long it would take to get his one-hundred and forty-seven pound self down to Derek's brick one, he came to the conclusion that yes, he had an extra second to punch Merle in the smarmy cheekbone. 

 _Four._ Stiles snapped his wings back to his spine, coiling his muscles as he careened towards the edge of the cliff. _Five._ Fingers tightened to fist and smashed into the other angel's face. _Six._ Stiles used the swing to turn to his back, swinging his foot out to press off of the edge of the cliff. Don't look down. Can't look down. _Seven._ ... _Eight._ The wind was a roar, cutting off every other sound save for the thundering of his own heart in his head. _Nine._ He arched his spine and saw Derek, locking gazes with a flash. _Ten._ Oh God let me catch him. _Eleven._ Say what you will, Stiles would never wish to be anything other than aerodynamic again. _Twelve._ He turned to face the ground then, panic choking him. _Thirteen._ He stretches out his hand, fingers touching lightly against Derek's. _Fourteen._ Hand clenches tight around hand, and Stiles scrambles against the gray for a better hold. He let out a wet cry of triumph when the other arm clenched tight around his waist and they were smashed together. His wing strike out into the air, arching them from vertical to horizontal and back to vertical again. _Fifteen._ Stiles realized that Derek wouldn't have died if he hit the ground. It's no matter. He's got the werewolf held tight to his chest and his wings are beating at the air and he may or may not be crying like a little piss into the dark hair. 

They sing up together into the air, and Stiles turns his sights back towards the land. Merle is rubbing at his face, expression blank as he watches them. His shoulders are sore, but Derek's face of thinly veiled terror is kind of worth it. 

"I told..." Stiles huffs as they flap nearer to the side of the rock. Merle steps back. They fall in a huff of feathers and skin, Stiles' diatribe cut off with an 'oof' as Derek accidentally headbutts him in the stomach. He's flipped overhead and lands on his back, a rock ramming directly into the nape of his neck. Ignoring the pain, Stiles turns his head to glare up at the angel. "I _tried_ to tell you, I told my mate." Derek growled, and only then did Stiles notice the hair shocking out of his face, the fangs pulsing out of his mouth. The fear had turned him.

"Mate..." Merle said dryly, uninterested, as he took in the sprawled out Derek. "You took a werewolf as a mate?"

Stiles shrugged from his spot on the ground. "The heart wants what the heart wants." 

"You know, I came to check on you after I heard you had exorcised a demon. I wondered, how did Stiles, the angel afraid of flying, exorcise a demon. And not only a demon, an old, ancient one. I suppose I have my answer now." Merle clicked his tongue and acknowledged Derek with a nod. "Thanks for keeping the dumb ass alive."

"Fuck off, Merle." The angel stared down at Stiles for a few minutes before shaking his head with a rueful laugh. 

"I hope you know that you're going to have to explain this," Merle motioned between the two of them, "to every other angel that comes hopping down for a visit." 

"And I hope you know that I will. Every. Single. Time. Trust me. You and I and everyone in this town know that I have no problem with talking. I'll just have to talk a little faster next time." 

Merle took the barbed comment with grace, tilting his head in acknowledgment. "Stiles." He said. "Mutt." And then he disappeared with that ear-popping smack.

Derek straightened as soon as the angel was gone, face contorting back to human. 

"You okay?" Stiles asked over his shoulder. Derek just continued looking at the ground, face pinched and tight. He nodded, just once, but it was enough. 

"Are all the angels so..." he trailed off, widening his eyes in place of an actual word. Stiles felt his mouth pitch up at the corners. 

"Kinda. There are a few nice ones, but I'm totally the coolest." It got a snort out of the werewolf. "But Merle's a total dick."

"And he's the one who didn't catch you?" Derek asked, eyebrows raising in that 'I care but that's not the point'' way that he does. Stiles stood, dusted off his knees, and meandered over to Derek. He towered over the sitting man, watching the crane of his neck as he turned to look up at him. Stiles offered his hand, and Derek took it.

"Yeah." And he thinks to the fall he just had, fingers clasping desperately at Derek's, clenching at the cotton to get the other hand only to have it slide up and dodge around his waist, pulling him close just a second before the wings shot out and caught in the wind. It was, essentially, a catch. 

Stiles still had Derek's hand in his, and he thinks of the catch, intentional or not, and smiles. Derek had an unasked question scribbled over his face in planes of skin and dark scruff. He knows what it is, knows that he doesn't know how to ask it or even if he wants to. So Stiles raises his fingers to scratch at the five o'clock shadow, running them up behind his ear to settle there. The content hum is rewarding. There's a little laugh, and a little resulting confusion, and Stiles answers the question.

"Not anymore, Sour-Wolf. Not anymore." 


End file.
